CHAPTER 21 - 21: THE BOOK OF PETER’S THRONE

The midday sun struck the western ramparts with silver light, and the mill in the Kidron Valley echoed with the slow, wet rhythm of pounding hammers. Paper—real paper—was being made by the hands of men who had never seen a book that wasn't bound in calfskin. Each day brought a few dozen more pages drying on stretched cloth frames, rough-edged but increasingly uniform. Jerusalem's people had begun calling the place "the Raining House," for the gentle dripping of pulp water from its stone basins.

Inside the citadel, Ethan sat at a high table scattered with vellum, sketches, and early test prints. His mask was off, resting beside a bowl of lukewarm wine vinegar where he soaked his arm twice a day. The mold no longer spread. It didn't retreat, either—but Gerard believed it was stabilizing, forming a faint, lichen-like barrier that seemed to resist other infections. A test applied to a wounded soldier near Gaza had shown promise: the fever dropped after two days. One more step forward.

But a problem had been gnawing at him all week—not one of logistics or medicine, but of legitimacy.

All his changes—his roads, his laws, his press, even his paper—were fragile without spiritual backing. The Pope had remained silent. Rome had sent no letters, no legates, no condemnation—but no blessing either. Ethan knew enough of history to understand the risk. If Rome viewed him as a heretic, the entire Kingdom of Jerusalem could fall from grace, or worse, be declared illegitimate. His nobles would abandon him. The orders might splinter. Even Acre's merchants would reconsider their support if they feared excommunication.

He needed the Pope. And not just as a passive ally. He needed active recognition. A statement that the King of Jerusalem, even one hiding behind a silver mask, still ruled with Heaven's favor.

So Ethan conceived of a gift. Not a letter, not coin—something greater.

A Bible.

But not any Bible. A printed Bible, yes, but also illuminated, glorified, and magnificent—one that bore the soul of a scriptorium and the ambition of a kingdom reborn. Something worthy of a pope's hand.

He would call it Liber Throni Petri: The Book of Peter's Throne

.

That evening, he summoned Anselm and the press foreman to his solar. They stood amid scattered diagrams and woodblock sketches as Ethan explained.

"This won't be like the others," Ethan said, gesturing to a page drying beside a candle flame. "We'll print only twenty total. But one must be so beautiful that it silences any suspicion. The Pope must look upon it and see not just scripture—but Jerusalem itself. Our purpose, our discipline, our glory."

He turned to Anselm. "That one copy may take half a year to finish."

Anselm raised an eyebrow. "Six months?"

"Perhaps more. The printing is the easy part."

They would print in batches—each page examined, trimmed, then passed to teams of artisans: gold leaf specialists, miniature painters, border illustrators, scribes trained to highlight capital letters in precious pigment. The book's binding would be a labor of love: cedar boards soaked in oil, wrapped in dyed leather, and clasped shut with gilded bronze. Ethan envisioned tiny enamel inlays of saints and the Four Evangelists on the corners, and the center a polished glass cabochon, ringed in lapis.

"We'll print the Latin Vulgate text, but only after finalizing every block. No errors. No shortcuts," Ethan said. "It must read as if written by the hand of angels, not machines."

The artisans understood: this was more than a commission. It was a diplomatic weapon cloaked in sanctity.

As word spread of the Liber Throni Petri, momentum grew around it.

Gerard sent for ink specialists in Acre to begin refining colorfast pigments—deep crimson from cochineal, blue from crushed lapis imported via Tripoli, and green from verdigris. Ethan insisted on gold leaf gilding not just for illustrations but also for the page borders on the first Gospel and final Revelation. Each page would bear the royal seal: a crowned Jerusalem cross with a tiny press carved beneath it—a quiet symbol, and a loud message.

"You'll need scribes of high skill," Balian warned him. "The Pope won't tolerate a smudged 'Amen.'"

Ethan had already recruited two Armenians, one Greek monk, and a Jewish calligrapher from Tiberias. They worked in shifts, applying color and detail by hand—just one column of decoration per day. The printing blocks themselves took nearly a week to cut per Gospel, and Ethan demanded tests for alignment, clarity, and wear before full runs.

At the current pace, the first Gospel—Matthew—would be finished in full form within a month. The complete Bible, nearly 800 pages, would not be done for many more.

And that was exactly what Ethan wanted.

Time bought legitimacy. If rumors reached Rome of a magnificent, Pope-bound Bible printed in Jerusalem—if bishops heard that it bore the Latin Vulgate, bound in purple leather, written by Catholic hands—then Ethan wouldn't need to argue for his reforms. He would let beauty and piety argue for him.

Back in the mill, the pace had slowed. Only thirty sheets a day now went toward the Pope's Bible. Each was selected from a dozen. Any wrinkle or pulp bubble rendered it unworthy. Apprentices laid them between wool felt and pressed them under stones, then cured them near the new hypocaust under the bathhouse floor.

Anselm carved his fourth Gospel title block—Johannes—into walnut. It would take another two weeks to test, ink, and set.

Ethan often visited late at night, watching the candlelight reflect off the drying racks like stars laid flat on the earth. Sometimes, he would run his gloved fingers over a page and imagine it resting in Rome—on silk cloth before the Pope, sunlight falling through the Sistine windows, cardinals leaning in, eyes wide.

And when the Pope turned that page, he would see not just scripture—but the birth of something new.

One evening, Balian found Ethan overlooking the Kidron Valley, his cloak wrapped against the gathering wind.

"The legate in Acre has agreed to meet. He's cautious—but curious."

Ethan nodded. "Good. I want him to see the work in progress."

"And after that?"

"We send him back with one Gospel, finely bound. Let him carry word to Rome: that the King of Jerusalem writes with iron and prayer alike."

Balian hesitated. "If the Pope refuses to respond?"

Ethan didn't answer at first. He looked to the west, toward the sea.

"Then we keep building," he said. "Not for permission. For permanence."